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Ktftol by Rflynwd Soulardjr. § Kdssawlrti Soulflrrt 

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Portland, O r e g o k 

Scriptor Press 

A Small, Good Thing 

by Raymond Carver 

edited by Raymond Soulard, Jr. 
& Kassandra Soulard 

Number Forty-six 

A Small, Good Thing (1983) 
by Raymond Carver 

Burning Man Books is 

an imprint of jf you > ve lm someom 

Scriptor Press 

2442 NW Market Street-#363 

Seattle, Washington 98107 

cenacle@mindspring. com 

This volume was composed 
in the AGaramond font 
in PageMaker 7.0 on the 
Macintosh G4 computer 

Saturday afternoon she drove to the bakery in the shopping center. 
After looking through a loose-leaf binder with photographs of 
cakes taped onto the pages, she ordered chocolate, the child's 
favorite. The cake she chose was decorated with a spaceship and 
launching pad under a sprinkling of white stars, and a planet made 
of red frosting at the other end. His name, SCOTTY, would be in green 
letters beneath the planet. The baker, who was an older man with a 
thick neck, listened without saying anything when she told him the 
child would be eight years old next Monday. The baker wore a white 
apron that looked like a smock. Straps cut under his arms, went around 
in back and then to the front again, where they were secured under 
his heavy waist. He wiped his hands on his apron as he listened to 
her. He kept his eyes down on the photographs and let her talk. He 
let her take her time. He'd just come to work and he'd be there all 
night, baking, and he was in no real hurry. 

She gave the baker her name, Ann Weiss, and her telephone 
number. The cake would be ready on Monday morning, just out of 
the oven, in plenty of time for the child's party that afternoon. The 
baker was not jolly. There were no pleasantries between them, just 
the minimum exchange of words, the necessary information. He made 
her feel uncomfortable, and she didn't like that. While he was bent 
over the counter with the pencil in his hand, she studied his coarse 
features and wondered if he'd ever done anything else with his life 
besides be a baker. She was a mother and thirty-three years old, and it 
seemed to her that everyone, especially someone the baker's age — a 
man old enough to be her father — must have children who'd gone 
through this special time of cakes and birthday parties. There must 
be that between them, she thought. But he was abrupt with her — 
not rude, just abrupt. She gave up trying to make friends with him. 
She looked into the back of the bakery and could see a long, heavy 
wooden table with aluminum pie pans stacked at one end; and beside 
the table a metal container filled with empty racks. There was an 
enormous oven. A radio was playing country-western music. 

The baker finished printing the information on the special 
order card and closed up the binder. He looked at her and said, 
"Monday morning." She thanked him and drove home. 

A Small, Good Thing 

On Monday morning, the birthday boy was walking to school 
with another boy. They were passing a bag of potato chips back and 
forth and the birthday boy was trying to find out what his friend 
intended to give him for his birthday that afternoon. Without looking, 
the birthday boy stepped off the curb at an intersection and was 
immediately knocked down by a car. He fell on his side with his head 
in the gutter and his legs out in the road. His eyes were closed, but 
his legs moved back and forth as if he were trying to climb over 
something. His friend dropped the potato chips and started to cry. 
The car had gone a hundred feet or so and stopped in the middle of 
the road. The man in the driver's seat looked back over his shoulder. 
He waited until the boy got unsteadily to his feet. The boy wobbled 
a little. He looked dazed, but okay. The driver put the car into gear 
and drove away. 

The birthday boy didn't cry, but he didn't have anything to 
say about anything either. He wouldn't answer when his friend asked 
him what it felt like to be hit by a car. He walked home, and his 
friend went on to school. But after the birthday boy was inside his 
house and was telling his mother about it — she sitting beside him on 
the sofa, holding his hands in her lap, saying, "Scotty, honey, are you 
sure you feel all right, baby?" thinking she would call the doctor 
anyway — he suddenly lay back on the sofa, closed his eyes, and went 
limp. When she couldn't wake him up, she hurried to the telephone 
and called her husband at work. Howard told her to remain calm, 
remain calm, and then he called an ambulance for the child and left 
for the hospital himself. 

Of course, the birthday party was canceled. The child was in 
the hospital with a mild concussion and suffering from shock. There'd 
been vomiting, and his lungs had taken in fluid which needed 
pumping out that afternoon. Now he simply seemed to be in a very 
deep sleep — but no coma, Dr. Francis had emphasized, no coma, 
when he saw the alarm in the parents' eyes. At eleven o'clock that 
night, when the boy seemed to be resting comfortably enough after 
the many X-rays and the lab work, and it was just a matter of his 
waking up and coming around, Howard left the hospital. He and 
Ann had been at the hospital with the child since that afternoon, and 

Raymond Carver 

he was going home for a short while to bathe and change clothes. 
"I'll be back in an hour," he said. She nodded. "It's fine," she said. 
"I'll be right here." He kissed her on the forehead, and they touched 
hands. She sat in the chair beside the bed and looked at the child. 
She was waiting for him to wake up and be all right. Then she could 
begin to relax. 

Howard drove home from the hospital. He took the wet, 
dark streets very fast, then caught himself and slowed down. Until 
now, his life had gone smoothly and to his satisfaction — college, 
marriage, another year of college for the advanced degree in business, 
a junior partnership in an investment firm. Fatherhood. He was happy 
and, so far, lucky — he knew that. His parents were still living, his 
brothers and his sister were established, his friends from college had 
gone out to take their places in the world. So far, he had kept away 
from any real harm, from those forces he knew existed and that could 
cripple or bring down a man if the luck went bad, if things suddenly 
turned. He pulled into the driveway and parked. His left leg began to 
tremble. He sat in the car for a minute and tried to deal with the 
present situation in a rational manner. Scotty had been hit by a car 
and was in the hospital, but he was going to be all right. Howard 
closed his eyes and ran his hand over his face. He got out of the car 
and went up to the front door. The dog was barking inside the house. 
The telephone rang and rang while he unlocked the door and fumbled 
for the light switch. He shouldn't have left the hospital, he shouldn't 
have. "Goddamn it!" he said. He picked up the receiver and said, "I 
just walked in the door!" 

"There's a cake that wasn't picked up," the voice on the other 
end of the line said. 

"What are you saying?" Howard asked. 

"A cake," the voice said. "A sixteen-dollar cake." 

Howard held the receiver against his ear, trying to understand. 
"I don't know anything about a cake," he said. "Jesus, what are you 
talking about?" 

"Don't hand me that," the voice said. 

Howard hung up the telephone. He went into the kitchen 
and poured himself some whiskey. He called the hospital. But the 

A Small, Good Thing 

child's condition remained the same; he was still sleeping and nothing 
had changed there. While water poured into the tub, Howard lathered 
his face and shaved. He'd just stretched out in the tub and closed his 
eyes when the telephone rang again. He hauled himself out, grabbed 
a towel, and hurried through the house, saying, "Stupid, stupid," for 
having left the hospital. But when he picked up the receiver and 
shouted, "Hello!" there was no sound at the other end of the line. 
Then the caller hung up. 

He arrived back at the hospital a little after midnight. Ann 
still sat in the chair beside the bed. She looked up at Howard, and 
then she looked back at the child. The child's eyes stayed closed, the 
head was still wrapped in bandages. His breathing was quiet and 
regular. From an apparatus over the bed hung a bottle of glucose 
with a tube running from the bottle to the boy's arm. 

"How is he?" Howard said. "What's all this?" waving at the 
glucose and the tube. 

"Dr. Francis's orders," she said. "He needs nourishment. He 
needs to keep up his strength. Why doesn't he wake up, Howard? I 
don't understand, if he's all right." 

Howard put his hand against the back of her head. He ran 
his fingers through her hair. "He's going to be all right. He'll wake up 
in a little while. Dr. Francis knows what's what." 

After a time he said, "Maybe you should go home and get 
some rest. I'll stay here. Just don't put up with this creep who keeps 
calling. Hang up right away." 

"Who's calling?" she asked. 

"I don't know who, just somebody with nothing better to do 
than call up people. You go on now." 

She shook her head. "No," she said. "I'm fine." 

"Really," he said. "Go home for a while, and then come back 
and spell me in the morning. It'll be all right. What did Dr. Francis 
say? He said Scotty's going to be all right. We don't have to worry. 
He's just sleeping now, that's all." 

A nurse pushed the door open. She nodded at them as she 
went to the bedside. She took the left arm out from under the covers 

8 • Raymond Carver 

and put her fingers on the wrist, found the pulse, then consulted her 
watch. In a little while, she put the arm back under the covers and 
moved to the foot of the bed, where she wrote something on a 
clipboard attached to the bed. 

"How is he?" Ann said. Howard's hand was a weight on her 
shoulder. She was aware of the pressure from his fingers. 

"He's stable," the nurse said. Then she said, "Doctor will be 
in again shortly. Doctor's back in the hospital. He's making rounds 
right now." 

"I was saying maybe she'd want to go home and get a little 
rest," Howard said. "After the doctor comes," he said. 

"She could do that," the nurse said. "I think you should both 
feel free to do that, if you wish." The nurse was a big Scandinavian 
woman with blond hair. There was the trace of an accent in her speech. 

"We'll see what the doctor says," Ann said. "I want to talk to 
the doctor. I don't think he should be sleeping like this. I don't think 
that's a good sign." She brought her hand up to her eyes and let her 
head come forward a little. Howard's grip tightened on her shoulder, 
and then his hand moved up to her neck, where his fingers began to 
knead the muscles there. 

"Dr. Francis will be here in a few minutes," the nurse said. 
Then she left the room. 

Howard gazed at his son for a time, the small chest quietly 
rising and falling under the covers. For the first time since the terrible 
minutes after Ann's telephone call to him at his office, he felt a genuine 
fear starting in his limbs. He began shaking his head. Scotty was fine, 
but instead of sleeping at home in his own bed, he was in a hospital 
bed with bandages around his head and a tube in his arm. But this 
help was what he needed right now. 

Dr. Francis came in and shook hands with Howard, though 
they'd just seen each other a few hours before. Ann got up from the 
chair. "Doctor?" 

"Ann," he said and nodded. "Let's just first see how he's doing," 
the doctor said. He moved to the side of the bed and took the boy's 
pulse. He peeled back one eyelid and then the other. Howard and 
Ann stood beside the doctor and watched. Then the doctor turned 

A Small, Good Thing • 9 

back the covers and listened to the boy's heart and lungs with his 
stethoscope. He pressed his fingers here and there on the abdomen. 
When he was finished, he went on to the end of the bed and studied 
the chart. He noted the time, scribbled something on the chart, and 
then looked at Howard and Ann. 

"Doctor, how is he?" Howard said. "What's the matter with 
him exactly?" 

"Why doesn't he wake up?" Ann said. 

The doctor was a handsome, big-shouldered man with a 
tanned face. He wore a three-piece suit, a striped tie, and ivory cuff 
links. His gray hair was combed along the sides of his head, and he 
looked as if he had just come from a concert. "He's all right," the 
doctor said. "Nothing to shout about, he could be better, I think. 
But he's all right. Still, I wish he'd wake up. He should wake up pretty 
soon." The doctor looked at the boy again. "We'll know some more 
in a couple of hours, after the results of a few more tests are in. But 
he's all right, believe me, except for a hairline fracture of the skull. He 
does have that." 

"Oh, no," Ann said. 

"And a bit of a concussion, as I said before. Of course, you 
know he's in shock," the doctor said. "Sometimes you see this in 
shock cases. This sleeping." 

"But he's out of any real danger?" Howard said. "You said 
before he's not in a coma. You wouldn't call this a coma, then — 
would you, doctor?" Howard waited. He looked at the doctor. 

"No, I don't want to call it a coma," the doctor said and 
glanced over at the boy once more. "He's just in a very deep sleep. It 
is a restorative measure the body is taking on its own. He's out of any 
real danger, I'd say that for certain, yes. But we'll know more when he 
wakes up and the other tests are in," the doctor said. 

"It's a coma," Ann said. "Of sorts." 

"It's not a coma yet, not exactly," the doctor said. "I wouldn't 
want to call it a coma. Not yet anyway. He's suffered shock. In shock 
cases, this kind of reaction is common enough; it's a temporary 
reaction to bodily trauma. Coma. Well, coma is a deep, prolonged 
unconsciousness, something that could go on for days, or weeks even. 

10 • Raymond Carver 

Scotty's not in that area, not as far as we can tell. I'm certain his 
condition will show improvement by morning. I'm betting it will. 
We'll know more when he wakes up, which shouldn't be long now. 
Of course, you may do as you like, stay here or go home for a time. 
But by all means feel free to leave the hospital for a while if you want. 
This is not easy, I know." The doctor gazed at the boy again, watching 
him, and then he turned to Ann and said, "You try not to worry, 
little mother. Believe me, we're doing all that can be done. It's just a 
question of a little more time now." He nodded at her, shook hands 
with Howard again, and then he left the room. 

Ann put her hand over the child's forehead. "At least he doesn't 
have a fever," she said. Then she said, "My god, he feels so cold, 
though. Howard? Is he supposed to feel like this? Feel his head." 

Howard touched the child's temples. His own breathing had 
slowed. "I think he's supposed to feel this way right now," he said. 
"He's in shock, remember? That's what the doctor said. The doctor 
was just in here. He would have said something if Scotty wasn't okay." 

Ann stood there a little while longer, working her lip with 
her teeth. Then she moved over to her chair and sat down. 

Howard sat in the chair next to her chair. They looked at 
each other. He wanted to say something else and reassure her, but he 
was afraid, too. He took her hand and put it in his lap, and this made 
him feel better, her hand being there. He picked up her hand and 
squeezed it. Then he just held her hand. They sat like that for a while, 
watching the boy and not talking. From time to time, he squeezed 
her hand. Finally, she took her hand away. 

"I've been praying," she said. 

He nodded. 

She said, "I almost thought I'd forgotten how, but it came 
back to me. All I had to do was close my eyes and say, 'Please God, 
help us — help Scotty' and then the rest was easy. The words were 
right there. Maybe if you prayed, too," she said to him. 

"I've already prayed," he said. "I prayed this afternoon — 
yesterday afternoon, I mean — after you called, while I was driving to 
the hospital. I've been praying," he said. 

A Small, Good Thing 


"That's good," she said. For the first time, she felt they were 
together in it, this trouble. She realized with a start that, until now, it 
had only been happening to her and to Scotty She hadn't let Howard 
into it, though he was there and needed all along. She felt glad to be 
his wife. 

The same nurse came in and took the boy's pulse again and 
checked the flow from the bottle hanging above the bed. 

In an hour, another doctor came in. He said his name was 
Parsons, from Radiology. He had a bushy moustache. He was wearing 
loafers, a western shirt, and a pair of jeans. 

"We're going to take him downstairs for more pictures," he 
told them. "We need to do some more pictures, and we want to do a 

"What's that?" Ann said. "A scan?" She stood between this 
new doctor and the bed. "I thought you'd already taken all your X- 

"I'm afraid we need some more," he said. "Nothing to be 
alarmed about. We just need some more pictures, and we want to do 
a brain scan on him." 

"My God," Ann said. 

"It's perfectly normal procedure in cases like this," this new 
doctor said. "We just need to find out for sure why he isn't back 
awake yet. It's normal medical procedure, and nothing to be alarmed 
about. We'll be taking him down in a few minutes," this doctor said. 

In a little while, two orderlies came into the room with a 
gurney They were black-haired, dark complexioned men in white 
uniforms, and they said a few words to each other in a foreign tongue 
as they unhooked the boy from the tube and moved him from his 
bed to the gurney. Then they wheeled him from the room. Howard 
and Ann got on the same elevator. Ann gazed at the child. She closed 
her eyes as the elevator began its descent. The orderlies stood at either 
end of the gurney without saying anything, though once one of the 
men made a comment to the other in their own language, and the 
other man nodded slowly in response. 

Later that morning, just as the sun was beginning to lighten 
the windows in the waiting room outside the X-ray department, they 

12 • Raymond Carver 

brought the boy out and moved him back up to his room. Howard 
and Ann rode up on the elevator with him once more, and once 
more they took up their places beside the bed. 

They waited all day, but still the boy did not wake up. 
Occasionally, one of them would leave the room to go downstairs to 
the cafeteria to drink coffee and then, as if suddenly remembering 
and feeling guilty, get up from the table and hurry back to the room. 
Dr. Francis came again that afternoon and examined the boy once 
more and then left after telling them he was coming along and could 
wake up at any minute now. Nurses, different nurses from the night 
before, came in from time to time. Then a young woman from the 
lab knocked and entered the room. She wore white slacks and a white 
blouse and carried a little tray of things which she put on the stand 
beside the bed. Without a word to them, she took blood from the 
boy's arm. Howard closed his eyes as the woman found the right 
place on the boy's arm and pushed the needle in. 

"I don't understand this," Ann said to the woman. 

"Doctor's orders," the young woman said. "I do what I'm 
told. They say draw that one, I draw. What's wrong with him, 
anyway?" she said. "He's a sweetie." 

"He was hit by a car," Howard said. "A hit-and-run." 

The young woman shook her head and looked again at the 
boy. Then she took her tray and left the room. 

"Why won't he wake up?" Ann said. "Howard? I want some 
answers from these people." 

Howard didn't say anything. He sat down again in the chair 
and crossed one leg over the other. He rubbed his face. He looked at 
his son and then he settled back in the chair, closed his eyes, and 
went to sleep. 

Ann walked to the window and looked out at the parking 
lot. It was night, and cars were driving into and out of the parking lot 
with their lights on. She stood at the window with her hands gripping 
the sill, and knew in her heart that they were into something now, 
something hard. She was afraid, and her teeth began to chatter until 
she tightened her jaws. She saw a big car stop in front of the hospital 

A Small, Good Thing 


and someone, a woman in a long coat, get into the car. She wished 
she were that woman and somebody, anybody, was driving her away 
from here to somewhere else, a place where she would find Scotty 
waiting for her when she stepped out of the car, ready to say Mom 
and let her gather him in her arms. 

In a little while, Howard woke up. He looked at the boy 
again. Then he got up from the chair, stretched, and went over to 
stand beside her at the window. They both stared out at the parking 
lot. They didn't say anything. But they seemed to feel each other's 
insides now, as though the worry had made them transparent in a 
perfectly natural way. 

The door opened and Dr. Francis came in. He was wearing a 
different suit and tie this time. His gray hair was combed along the 
sides of his head, and he looked as if he had just shaved. He went 
straight to the bed and examined the boy. "He ought to have come 
around by now. There's just no good reason for this," he said. "But I 
can tell you we're all convinced he's out of any danger. We'll just feel 
better when he wakes up. There's no reason, absolutely none, why he 
shouldn't come around. Very soon. Oh, he'll have himself a dilly of a 
headache when he does, you can count on that. But all of his signs 
are fine. They're normal as can be." 

"It is a coma, then?" Ann said. 

The doctor rubbed his smooth cheek. "We'll call it that for 
the time being, until he wakes up. But you must be worn out. This is 
hard. I know this is hard. Feel free to go out for a bite," he said. "It 
would do you good. I'll put a nurse in here while you're gone if you'll 
feel better about going. Go and have yourselves something to eat." 

"I couldn't eat anything." Ann said. 

"Do what you need to do, of course," the doctor said. 
"Anyway, I wanted to tell you that all the signs are good, the tests are 
negative, nothing showed up at all, and just as soon as he wakes up 
he'll be over the hill." 

"Thank you, doctor," Howard said. He shook hands with 
the doctor again. The doctor patted Howard's shoulder and went 

14 • Raymond Carver 

"I suppose one of us should go home and check on things," 
Howard said. "Slug needs to be fed, for one thing." 

"Call one of the neighbors," Ann said. "Call the Morgans. 
Anyone will feed a dog if you ask them to." 

"All right," Howard said. After a while, he said, "Honey, why 
don't you do it? Why don't you go home and check on things, and 
then come back? It'll do you good. I'll be right here with him. 
Seriously," he said. "We need to keep up our strength on this. We'll 
want to be here for a while even after he wakes up." 

"Why don't you go?" she said. "Feed Slug. Feed yourself." 

"I already went," he said. "I was gone for exactly an hour and 
fifteen minutes. You go home for an hour and freshen up. Then come 

She tried to think about it, but she was too tired. She closed 
her eyes and tried to think about it again. After a time, she said, 
"Maybe I will go home for a few minutes. Maybe if I'm not just 
sitting here watching him every second, he'll wake up and be all right. 
You know? Maybe he'll wake up if I'm not here. I'll go home and take 
a bath and put on clean clothes. I'll feed Slug. Than I'll come back." 

"I'll be right here," he said. "You go on home, honey. I'll 
keep an eye on things here." His eyes were bloodshot and small, as if 
he'd been drinking for a long time. His clothes were rumpled. His 
beard had come out again. She touched his face, and then she took 
her hand back. She understood he wanted to be by himself for a 
while, not have to talk or share his worry for a time. She picked up 
her purse from the nightstand, and he helped her into her coat. 

"I won't be gone long," she said. 

"Just sit and rest for a little while when you get home," he 
said. "Eat something. Take a bath. After you get out of the bath, just 
sit for a while and rest. It'll do you a world of good, you'll see. Then 
come back," he said. "Let's try not to worry. You heard what Dr. 
Francis said." 

She stood in her coat for a minute trying to recall the doctor's 
exact words, looking for any nuances, any hint of something behind 
his words other than what he had said. She tried to remember if his 
expression had changed any when he bent over to examine the child. 

A Small, Good Thing 


She remembered the way his features had composed themselves as he 
rolled back the child's eyelids, and then listened to his breathing. 

She went to the door, where she turned and looked back. She 
looked at the child, and then she looked at the father. Howard nodded. 
She stepped out of the room and pulled the door closed behind her. 

She went past the nurses' station and down to the end of the 
corridor, looking for the elevator. At the end of the corridor, she 
turned to her right and entered a little waiting room where a Negro 
family sat in wicker chairs. There was a middle-aged man in khaki 
and pants, a baseball cap pushed back on his head. A large woman 
wearing a housedress and slippers was slumped in one of the chairs. 
A teenaged girl in jeans, hair done in dozens of little braids, lay 
stretched out in one of the chairs smoking a cigarette, her legs crossed 
at the ankles. The family swung their eyes to Ann as she entered the 
room. The little table was littered with hamburger wrappers and 
Styrofoam cups. 

"Franklin," the large woman said as she roused herself. "Is it 
about Franklin?" Her eyes widened. "Tell me now, lady," the woman 
said. "Is it about Franklin?" She was trying to rise from her chair, but 
the man had closed his hand over her arm. 

"Here, here," he said. "Evelyn." 

"I'm sorry," Ann said. "I'm looking for the elevator. My son 
is in the hospital, and now I can't find the elevator." 

"Elevator is down that way, turn left," the man said as he 
aimed a finger. 

The girl drew on her cigarette and stared at Ann. Her eyes 
narrowed to slits, and her broad lips parted slowly as she let the smoke 
escape. The Negro woman let her head fall on her shoulder and looked 
away from Ann, no longer interested. 

"My son was hit by a car," Ann said to the man. She seemed 
to need to explain herself. "He has a concussion and a little skull 
fracture, but he's going to be all right. He's in shock now, but it might 
be some kind of coma, too. That's what really worries us, the coma 
part. I'm going out for a little while, but my husband is with him. 
Maybe he'll wake up while I'm gone." 

16 • Raymond Carver 

"That's too bad," the man said and shifted in the chair. He 
shook his head. He looked down at the table, and then he looked 
back at Ann. She was still standing there. He said, "Our Franklin, 
he's on the operating table. Somebody cut him. Tried to kill him. 
There was a fight where he was at. At this party. They say he was just 
standing and watching. Not bothering nobody. But that don't mean 
nothing these days. Now he's on the operating table. We're just hoping 
and praying, that's all we can do now." He gazed at her steadily. 

Ann looked at the girl again, who was still watching her, and 
at the older woman, who kept her head down, but whose eyes were 
now closed. Ann saw the lips moving silently, making words. She 
had an urge to ask what those words were. She wanted to talk more 
with these people who were in the same kind of waiting she was in. 
She was afraid, and they were afraid. They had that in common. She 
would have liked to have said something else about the accident, told 
them more about Scotty, that it had happened on the day of his 
birthday, Monday, and that he was still unconscious. Yet she didn't 
know how to begin. She stood looking at them without saying 
anything more. 

She went down the corridor the man had indicated and found 
the elevator. She waited a minute in front of the closed doors, still 
wondering if she was doing the right thing. Then she put out her 
finger and touched the button. 

She pulled into the driveway and cut the engine. She closed 
her eyes and leaned her head against the wheel for a minute. She 
listened to the ticking sounds the engine made as it began to cool. 
Then she got out of the car. She could hear the dog barking inside 
the house. She went to the front door, which was unlocked. She went 
inside and turned on lights and put on a kettle of water for tea. She 
opened some dog food and fed Slug on the back porch. The dog ate 
in hungry little smacks. It kept running into the kitchen to see that 
she was going to stay. As she sat down on the sofa with her tea, the 
telephone rang. 

"Yes!" she said as she answered. "Hello!" 

A Small, Good Thing 


"Mrs. Weiss," a man's voice said. It was five o'clock in the 
morning, and she thought she could hear machinery or equipment 
of some kind in the background. 

"Yes, yes! What is it?" she said. "This is Mrs. Weiss. This is 
she. What is it, please?" She listened to whatever it was in the 
background. "Is it Scotty, for Christ's sake?" 

"Scotty," the man's voice said. "It's about Scotty, yes. It has to 
do with Scotty, that problem. Have you forgotten about Scotty?" the 
man said. Then he hung up. 

She dialed the hospital's number and asked for the third floor. 
She demanded information about her son from the nurse who 
answered the telephone. Then she asked to speak to her husband. It 
was, she said, an emergency. 

She waited, turning the telephone cord in her fingers. She 
closed her eyes and felt sick at her stomach. She would have to make 
herself eat. Slug came in from the back porch and lay down near her 
feet. He wagged his tail. She pulled at his ear while he licked her 
fingers. Howard was on the line. 

"Somebody just called here," she said. She twisted the 
telephone cord. "He said it was about Scotty," she cried. 

"Scotty's fine," Howard told her. "I mean, he's still sleeping. 
There's been no change. The nurse has been in twice since you've 
been gone. A nurse or else a doctor. He's all right." 

"This man called. He said it was about Scotty," she told him. 

"Honey, you rest for a little while, you need the rest. It must 
be that same caller I had. Just forget it. Come back down here after 
you've rested. Then we'll have breakfast or something." 

"Breakfast," she said. "I don't want any breakfast." 

"You know what I mean," he said. "Juice, something. I don't 
know. I don't know anything, Ann. Jesus, I'm not hungry, either. 
Ann, it's hard to talk now. I'm standing here at the desk. Dr. Francis 
is coming again at eight o'clock this morning. He's going to have 
something to tell us then, something more definite. That's what one 
of the nurses said. She didn't know any more than that. Ann? Honey, 
maybe we'll know something more then. At eight o'clock. Come back 

18 • Raymond Carver 

here before eight. Meanwhile, I'm right here and Scotty's all right. 
He's still the same," he added. 

"I was drinking a cup of tea," she said, "when the telephone 
rang. They said it was about Scotty. There was a noise in the 
background. Was there a noise in the background on that call you 
had, Howard?" 

"I don't remember," he said. "Maybe the driver of the car, 
maybe he's a psychopath and found out about Scotty somehow. But 
I'm here with him. Just rest like you were going to do. Take a bath 
and come back by seven or so, and we'll talk to the doctor together 
when he gets here. It's going to be all right, honey. I'm here, and there 
are doctors and nurses around. They say his condition is stable." 

"I'm scared to death," she said. 

She ran water, undressed, and got into the tub. She washed 
and dried quickly, not taking the time to wash her hair. She put on 
clean underwear, wool slacks, and a sweater. She went into the living 
room, where the dog looked up at her and let its tail thump once 
against the floor. It was just starting to get light outside when she 
went out to the car. 

She drove into the parking lot of the hospital and found a 
space close to the front door. She felt she was in some obscure way 
responsible for what had happened to the child. She let her thoughts 
move to the Negro family. She remembered the name Franklin and 
the table that was covered with hamburger papers, and the teenaged 
girl staring at her as she drew on her cigarette. "Don't have children," 
she told the girl's image as she entered the front door of the hospital. 
"For God's sake, don't." 

She took the elevator up to the third floor with two nurses 
who were just going on duty. It was Wednesday morning, a few 
minutes before seven. There was a page for a Dr. Madison as the 
elevator doors slid open on the third floor. She got off behind the 
nurses, who turned in the other direction and continued the 
conversation she had interrupted when she'd gotten into the elevator. 
She walked down the corridor to the little alcove where the Negro 
family had been waiting. They were gone now, but the chairs were 

A Small, Good Thing 


scattered in such a way that it looked as if people had just jumped up 
from them the minute before. The tabletop was cluttered with the 
same cups and papers, the ashtray was filled with cigarette butts. 

She stopped at the nurses' station. A nurse was standing behind 
the counter, brushing her hair and yawning. 

"There was a Negro boy in surgery last night," Ann said. 
"Franklin was his name. His family was in the waiting room. I'd like 
to inquire about his condition." 

A nurse who was sitting at a desk behind the counter looked 
up from the chart in front of her. The telephone buzzed and she 
picked up the receiver, but she kept her eyes on Ann. 

"He passed away," said the nurse at the counter. The nurse 
held the hairbrush and kept looking at her. "Are you a friend of the 
family or what?" 

"I met the family last night," Ann said. "My own son is in 
the hospital. I guess he's in shock. We don't know for sure what's 
wrong. I just wondered about Franklin, that's all. Thank you." She 
moved down the corridor. Elevator doors the same color as the walls 
slid open and a gaunt, bald man in white pants and white canvas 
shoes pulled a heavy cart off the elevator. She hadn't noticed these 
doors last night. The man wheeled the cart out into the corridor and 
stopped in front of the room nearest the elevator and consulted a 
clipboard. Then he reached down and slid a tray out of the car. He 
rapped lightly on the door and entered the room. She could smell the 
unpleasant odors of warm food as she passed the cart. She hurried on 
without looking at any of the nurses and pushed open the door to 
the child's room. 

Howard was standing at the window with his hands behind 
his back. He turned around as she came in. 

"How is he?" she said. She went over to the bed. She dropped 
her purse on the floor beside the nightstand. It seemed to her she had 
been gone a long time. She touched the child's face. "Howard?" 

"Dr. Francis was here a little while ago," Howard said. She 
looked at him closely and thought his shoulders were bunched a little. 

"I thought he wasn't coming until eight o'clock this morning," 
she said quickly. 

20 • Raymond Carver 

"There was another doctor with him. A neurologist." 

"A neurologist," she said. 

Howard nodded. His shoulders were bunching, she could 
see that. "What'd they say, Howard? For Christ's sake, what'd they 
say? What is it?" 

"They said they're going to take him down and run more 
tests on him, Ann. They think they're going to operate, honey. Honey, 
they are going to operate. They can't figure out why he won't wake 
up. It's more than just shock or concussion, they know that much 
now. It's in his skull, the fracture, it has something, something to do 
with that, they think. So they're going to operate. I tried to call you, 
but I guess you'd already left the house." 

"Oh, God," she said. "Oh, please, Howard, please," she said, 
taking his arms. 

"Look!" Howard said. "Scotty! Look, Ann!" He turned her 
toward the bed. 

The boy had opened his eyes, then closed them. He opened 
them again now. The eyes stared straight ahead for a minute, then 
moved slowly in his head until they rested on Howard and Ann, then 
traveled away again. 

"Scotty," his mother said, moving to the bed. 

"Hey, Scott," his father said. "Hey, son." 

They leaned over the bed. Howard took the child's hand in 
his hands and began to pat and squeeze the hand. Ann bent over the 
boy and kissed his forehead again and again. She put her hands on 
either side of his face. "Scotty, honey, it's Mommy and Daddy," she 
said. "Scotty?" 

The boy looked at them, but without any sign of recognition. 
Then his mouth opened, his eyes scrunched closed, and he howled 
until he had no more air in his lungs. His face seemed to relax and 
soften then. His lips parted as his last breath was puffed through his 
throat and exhaled gently through the clenched teeth. 

The doctors called it a hidden occlusion and said it was a 
one-in-a-million circumstance. Maybe if it could have been detected 
somehow and surgery undertaken immediately, they could have saved 

A Small, Good Thing 


him. But more than likely not. In any case, what would they have 
been looking for? Nothing had shown up in the tests or in the X- 

Dr. Francis was shaken. "I can't tell you how badly I feel. I'm 
so very sorry I can't tell you," he said as he led them into the doctors' 
lounge. There was a doctor sitting in a chair with his legs hooked 
over the back of another chair, watching an early-morning TV show. 
He was wearing a green delivery-room outfit, loose green pants and 
green blouse, and a green cap that covered his hair. He looked at 
Howard and Ann and then looked at Dr. Francis. He got to his feet 
and turned off the set and went out of the room. Dr. Francis guided 
Ann to the sofa, sat down beside her, and began to talk in a low, 
consoling voice. At one point, he leaned over and embraced her. She 
could feel his chest rising and falling evenly against her shoulder. She 
kept her eyes open and let him hold her. Howard went into the 
bathroom, but he left the door open. After a violent fit of weeping, 
he ran water and washed his face. Then he came out and sat down at 
the little table that held a telephone. He looked at the telephone as 
though deciding what to do first. He made some calls. After a time, 
Dr. Francis used the telephone. 

"Is there anything else I can do for the moment?" he asked 

Howard shook his head. Ann stared at Dr. Francis as if unable 
to comprehend his words. 

The doctor walked them to the hospital's front door. People 
were entering and leaving the hospital. It was eleven o'clock in the 
morning. Ann was aware of how slowly, almost reluctantly, she moved 
her feet. It seemed to her that Dr. Francis was making them leave 
when she felt they should stay, when it would be more the right thing 
to do to stay. She gazed out into the parking lot and then turned 
around and looked back at the front of the hospital. She began shaking 
her head. "No, no," she said. "I can't leave him here, no." She heard 
herself say that and thought how unfair it was that the only words 
that came out were the sort of words used on TV shows where people 
were stunned by violent or sudden deaths. She wanted her words to 
be her own. "No," she said, and for some reason the memory of the 

22 • Raymond Carver 

Negro woman's head lolling on the woman's shoulder came to her. 
"No," she said again. 

"I'll be talking to you later in the day," the doctor was saying 
to Howard. "There are still some things that have to be done, things 
that have to be cleared up to our satisfaction. Some things that need 

"An autopsy," Howard said. 

Dr. Francis nodded. 

"I understand," Howard said. Then he said, "Oh, Jesus. No, 
I don't understand, doctor. I can't. I can't. I just can't." 

Dr. Francis put his arm around Howard's shoulders. "I'm sorry. 
God, how I'm sorry." He let go of Howard's shoulders and held out 
his hand. Howard looked at the hand, and then he took it. Dr. Francis 
put his arms around Ann once more. He seemed full of some goodness 
she didn't understand. She let her head rest on his shoulder, but her 
eyes stayed open. She kept looking at the hospital. As they drove out 
of the parking lot, she looked back at the hospital. 

At home, she sat on the sofa with her hands in her coat 
pockets. Howard closed the door to the child's room. He got the 
coffee-maker going and then he found an empty box. He had thought 
to pick up some of the child's things that were scattered around the 
living room. But instead he sat down beside her on the sofa, pushed 
the box to one side, and leaned forward, arms between his knees. He 
began to weep. She pulled his head over into her lap and patted his 
shoulder. "He's gone," she said. She kept patting his shoulder. Over 
his sobs, she could hear the coffee-maker hissing in the kitchen. 
"There, there," she said tenderly. "Howard, he's gone. He's gone and 
now we'll have to get used to that. To being alone." 

In a little while, Howard got up and began moving aimlessly 
around the room with the box, not putting anything into it, but 
collecting some things together on the floor at one end of the sofa. 
She continued to sit with her hands in her coat pockets. Howard put 
the box down and brought coffee into the living room. Later, Ann 
made calls to relatives. After each call had been placed and the party 
had answered, Ann would blurt out a few words and cry for a minute. 

A Small, Good Thing 


Then she would quietly explain, in a measured voice, what had 
happened and tell them about arrangements. Howard took the box 
out to the garage, where he saw the child's bicycle. He dropped the 
box and sat down on the pavement beside the bicycle. He took hold 
of the bicycle awkwardly so that it leaned against his chest. He held 
it, the rubber pedal sticking into his chest. He gave the wheel a turn. 

Ann hung up the telephone after talking to her sister. She 
was looking up another number when the telephone rang. She picked 
it up on the first ring. 

"Hello," she said, and she heard something in the background, 
a humming noise. "Hello!" she said. "For God's sake," she said. "Who 
is this? What is it you want?" 

"Your Scotty, I got him ready for you," the man's voice said. 
"Did you forget him?" 

"You evil bastard!" she shouted into the receiver. "How can 
you do this, you evil son of a bitch?" 

"Scotty," the man said. "Have you forgotten about Scotty?" 
Then the man hung up on her. 

Howard heard the shouting and came in to find her with her 
arms over the table, weeping. He picked up the receiver and listened 
to the dial tone. 

Much later, just before midnight, after they had dealt with 
many things, the telephone rang again. 

"You answer it," she said. "Howard, it's him, I know." They 
were sitting at the kitchen table with coffee in front of them. Howard 
had a small glass of whiskey beside his cup. He answered on the third 

"Hello," he said. "Who is this? Hello! Hello!" The line went 
dead. "He hung up," Howard said. "Whoever it was." 

"It was him," she said. "That bastard. I'd like to kill him," 
she said. "I'd like to shoot him and watch him kick," she said. 

"Ann, my God," he said. 

"Could you hear anything?" she said. "In the background? A 
noise, machinery, something humming?" 

24 • Raymond Carver 

"Nothing, really. Nothing like that," he said. "There wasn't 
much time. I think there was some radio music. Yes, there was was a 
radio going, that's all I could tell. I don't know what in God's name is 
going on," he said. 

She shook her head. "If I could, could get my hands on him." 
It came to her then. She knew who it was. Scotty, the cake, the 
telephone number. She pushed the chair away from the table and got 
up. "Drive me down to the shopping center," she said. "Howard." 

"What are you saying?" 

"The shopping center. I know who it is who's calling. I know 
who it is. It's the baker, the son-of-a-bitching baker, Howard. I had 
him bake a cake for Scotty's birthday. That's who calling. That's who 
has the number and keeps calling us. To harass us about that cake. 
The baker, that bastard." 

They drove down to the shopping center. The sky was clear 
and the stars were out. It was cold, and they ran the heater in the car. 
They parked in front of the bakery. All of the shops and stores were 
closed, but there were cars at the far end of the lot in front of the 
movie theater. The bakery windows were dark, but when they looked 
through the glass they could see a light in the back room and, now 
and then, a big man in an apron moving in and out of the white, 
even light. Through the glass, she could see the display cases and 
some little tables with chairs. She tried the door. She rapped on the 
glass. But if the baker heard them, he gave no sign. He didn't look in 
their direction. 

They drove around behind the bakery and parked. They got 
out of the car. There was a lighted window too high up for them to 
see inside. A sign near the back door said the pantry bakery, special 
orders. She could hear faintly a radio playing inside and something 
creak — an oven door as it was pulled down? She knocked on the 
door and waited. Then she knocked again, louder. The radio was 
turned down and there was a scraping sound now, the distinct sound 
of something, a drawer, being pulled open and then closed. 

Someone unlocked the door and opened it. The baker stood 
in the light and peered out at them. "I'm closed for business," he 

A Small, Good Thing 


said. "What do you want at this hour? It's midnight. Are you drunk 
or something?" 

She stepped into the light that fell through the open door. 
He blinked his heavy eyelids as he recognized her. "It's you," he said. 

"It's me," she said. "Scotty's mother. This is Scotty's father. 
We'd like to come in." 

The baker said,"I'm busy now. I have work to do." 

She had stepped inside the doorway anyway. Howard came 
in behind her. The baker moved back. "It smells like a bakery in here. 
Doesn't it smell like a bakery in here, Howard?" 

"What do you want?" the baker said. "Maybe you want your 
cake? That's it, you decided you want your cake. You ordered a cake, 
didn't you?" 

"You're pretty smart for a baker," she said. "Howard, this is 
the man who's been calling us." She clenched her fists. She stared at 
him fiercely. There was a deep burning inside her, an anger that made 
her feel larger than herself, larger than either of these men. 

"Just a minute here," the baker said. "You want to pick up 
your three-day-old cake? That it? I don't want to argue with you, 
lady. There it sits over there, getting stale. I'll give it to you for half of 
what I quoted you. No. You want it? You can have it. It's no good to 
me, no good to anyone now. It cost me time and money to make that 
cake. If you want it, okay, if you don't, that's okay, too. I have to get 
back to work." He looked at them and rolled his tongue behind his 

"More cakes," she said. She knew she was in control of it, 
what was increasing in her. She was calm. 

"Lady, I work sixteen hours a day in this place to earn a living," 
the baker said. He wiped his hands on his apron. "I work night and 
day in here, trying to make ends meet." A look crossed Ann's face 
that made the baker move back and say, "No trouble, now." He 
reached to the counter and picked up a rolling pin with his right 
hand and began to tap it against the palm of his other hand. "You 
want the cake or not? I have to get back to work. Bakers work at 
night," he said again. His eyes were small, mean-looking, she thought, 

26 • Raymond Carver 

nearly lost in the bristly flesh around his cheeks. His neck was thick 
with fat. 

"I know bakers work at night," Ann said. "They make phone 
calls at night, too. You bastard," she said. 

The baker continued to tap the rolling pin against his hand. 
He glanced at Howard. "Careful, careful," he said to Howard. 

"My son's dead," she said with a cold, even finality. "He was 
hit by a car Monday morning. We've been waiting with him until he 
died. But, of course, you couldn't be expected to know that, could 
you? Bakers can't know everything — can they, Mr. Baker? But he's 
dead. He's dead, you bastard!" Just as suddenly as it had welled in 
her, the anger dwindled, gave way to something else, a dizzy feeling 
of nausea. She leaned against the wooden table that was sprinkled 
with flour, put her hands over her face, and began to cry, her shoulders 
rocking back and forth. "It isn't fair," she said. "It isn't, isn't fair." 

Howard put his hand at the small of her back and looked at 
the baker. "Shame on you," Howard said to him. "Shame." 

The baker put the rolling pin back on the counter. He undid 
his apron and threw it on the counter. He looked at them, and then 
he shook his head slowly. He pulled a chair out from under the card 
table that held papers and receipts, an adding machine, and a 
telephone directory. "Please sit down," he said. "Let me get you a 
chair," he said to Howard. "Sit down now, please." The baker went 
into the front of the shop and returned with two little wrought-iron 
chairs. "Please sit down, you people." 

Ann wiped her eyes and looked at the baker. "I wanted to kill 
you," she said. "I wanted you dead." 

The baker had cleared a space for them at the table. He shoved 
the adding machine to one side, along with the stacks of notepaper 
and receipts. He pushed the telephone directory onto the floor, where 
it landed with a thud. Howard and Ann sat down and pulled their 
chairs up to the table. The baker sat down, too. 

"Let me say how sorry I am," the baker said, putting his elbows 
on the table. "God alone knows how sorry. Listen to me. I'm just a 
baker. I don't claim to be anything else. Maybe once, maybe years 
ago, I was a different kind of human being. I've forgotten, I don't 

A Small, Good Thing • 27 

know for sure. But I'm not any longer, if I ever was. Now I'm just a 
baker. That don't excuse my doing what I did, I know. But I'm deeply 
sorry. I'm sorry for your son, and sorry for my part in this," the baker 
said. He spread his hands out on the table and turned them over to 
reveal his palms. "I don't have any children myself, so I can only 
imagine what you must be feeling. All I can say to you now is that 
I'm sorry. Forgive me, if you can," the baker said. "I'm not an evil 
man, I don't think. Not evil, like you said on the phone. You got to 
understand what it comes down to is I don't know how to act anymore, 
it would seem. Please," the man said, "let me ask you if you can find 
it in your hearts to forgive me?" 

It was warm inside the bakery. Howard stood up from the 
table and took off his coat. He helped Ann from her coat. The baker 
looked at them for a minute and then nodded and got up from the 
table. He went to the oven and turned off some switches. He found 
cups and poured coffee from an electric coffee-maker. He put a carton 
of cream on the table, and a bowl of sugar. 

"You probably need to eat something," the baker said. "I hope 
you'll eat some of my hot rolls. You have to eat and keep going. Eating 
is a small, good thing in a time like this," he said. 

He served them warm cinnamon rolls just out of the oven, 
the icing still runny. He put butter on the table and knives to spread 
the butter. Then the baker sat down at the table with them. He waited. 
He waited until they each took a roll from the platter and began to 
eat. "It's good to eat something," he said, watching them. "There's 
more. Eat up. Eat all you want. There's all the rolls in the world in 

They ate rolls and drank coffee. Ann was suddenly hungry, 
and the rolls were warm and sweet. She ate three of them, which 
pleased the baker. Then he began to talk. They listened carefully. 
Although they were tired and in anguish, they listened to what the 
baker had to say. They nodded when the baker began to speak of 
loneliness, and of the sense of doubt and limitation that had come to 
him in his middle years. He told them what it was like to be childless 
all these years. To repeat the days with the ovens endlessly full and 
endlessly empty. The party food, the celebrations he'd worked over. 

Raymond Carver 

Icing knuckle-deep. The tiny wedding couples stuck into cakes. 
Hundreds of them, no, thousands by now. Birthdays. Just imagine 
all those candles burning. He had a necessary trade. He was a baker. 
He was glad he wasn't a florist. It was better to be feeding people. 
This was a better smell anytime than flowers. 

"Smell this," the baker said, breaking open a dark loaf. "It's a 
heavy bread, but rich." They smelled it, then he had them taste it. It 
had the taste of molasses and coarse grains. They listened to him. 
They ate what they could. They swallowed the dark bread. It was like 
daylight under the fluorescent trays of light. They talked on into the 
early morning, the high, pale cast of light in the windows, and they 
did not think of leaving. 

A Small, Good Thing 


30 • Raymond Carver